A Certain Reputation
by Vera Rozalsky
Summary: Lucius Malfoy has a certain reputation; Hermione is moved to investigate, with hopes of hands-on inquiry. A crackfic in three movements. Other pairings: Draco/Hermione, Narcissa/Percy.
1. Thursday, and Before

**Disclaimer:** I'm not J.K. Rowling; I'm only visiting her universe for nonprofit fun and edification. (No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended).

*******

**Second disclaimer: **Not only is this fic not the work of J. K. Rowling, it is not the work of Vera Rozalsky, who writes serious, socially conscious fan-fic epics and not silly, silly sex farces with broad hints about kinky stuff and borderline out-of-character travesties of beloved (or in the case of Lucius Malfoy, despised) characters from the Harry Potter universe.

**Dedication:** This parody Lucius/Hermione fic is dedicated to (or blamed on) tenoh27, a lively reviewer and correspondent, whose messages are infused with an electronic Potion to spontaneously generate plot bunnies (sort of a fic-writer's Amortentia).

**Rating and content warnings:** Just to be safe, we'll call it M for Many References to Kinky Things, as well as Miscellaneous Family Dysfunction. ("Mature" has nothing to do with it.) As well, we assign a P for Pure Crack.

**Genre warning: **As for the question of whether this is a cracked-out Lucius/Hermione or an only somewhat less cracked-out Draco/Hermione, we will leave that to the sages who attend to such questions.

***

Draco broke it off with Hermione because he was getting sick from all of the Polyjuice.

He regretted that, for it had been the affair of a lifetime. He'd always had a thing for Granger, ever since she slapped him in third year and his fantasy sex life really took off, with visions of what else she might do to him if appropriately provoked. His personal favorite involved her giving him a good spanking… in the Great Hall, in front of everybody, including her side-kicks Potter and Weasley. He sighed, thinking about how that one had always worked without fail, no matter how tired or distracted he was ...

It wasn't until a year after the end of the war, that they bumped into each other in the distinctly dodgy Shrieking Skull, in Knockturn Alley, while engaged in the attempt to drown their respective sorrows in Old Ogden's Finest Firewhiskey.

He'd been drowning his sorrows because his mother had just left his father, for a Weasley no less. Percy Weasley. It was about sex, of course, and her secret kinks, and Skeeter had been threatening to splash it across the front pages of the _Prophet._ That had upset his father, who'd been out Galleons he couldn't afford for the cost of the cover-up. Money troubles always _always_ put Lucius in a foul mood, and Lucius in a foul mood was nothing Draco wanted to spend time in the house with, so instead he went out.

Granger had been drowning her sorrows because she had finally broken it off with the Weasel. She had four shots of firewhisky lined up on the bar in front of her, and she was knocking them back with scientific precision while consulting uptake timelines for the alcohol and component Potions, magically calibrated to her body weight.

He thought that was a niggling swotty approach to the problem of getting drunk, and said so.

Oh, yes, and (remembering that she was Muggle-born) it was distinctly Mugglish into the bargain. Muggles were always consulting timetables of one sort or another, which struck him as a low practice.

She said that he was welcome to his anti-Muggle prejudices, but she meant to get stinking drunk and wished to do it without vomiting or toxic blackout. Properly looked at, getting stinking drunk was an optimization problem in applied toxicology, but in reverse.

If he knew what she meant.

And if he didn't, he should stop sneering and have a go at rectifying his ignorance.

He was already drunk enough to be fascinated, and decided, strictly in the name of inter-House unity, deference to a post-war Power, and reckless curiosity, to have a go.

The result was the most_ optimized_, glorious drunkenness he had ever attained, in the course of which he lost his inhibitions far enough to tell her all about his adolescent fantasies about her _teaching him a lesson_, while a tiny voice transmitting from near-earth orbit asked him if maybe he might regret that in the morning. He ignored it, because it was so plainly wrong, and proceeded to give Granger the unexpurgated list of everything he'd ever imagined provoking her to do to him.

She looked at him with narrowed eyes. "You're telling me that you were an insufferable racist prat just to get my attention?"

"Not entirely, Granger. There was the Pureblood way of life and all that." This with a sweeping gesture that somehow took in the Dark Mark on his left forearm, the dodgy pub (a known haunt for those reckoned too murky for the Hog's Head), and his own impeccable robes, that still managed a bit of Death Eater Chic. He was fitted out in black and silver with touches of green, like a proper Slytherin Old Boy, a look that in his opinion never went out of style.

"And what about assassinating Dumbledore?"

"Extracurricular activity. Call it an internship. Really, Granger, it's not all about _you_."

She frowned, and if he'd been sober, he would have cleared out. It was a good thing that he was drunk, because next, to his immense astonishment, she proceeded to tell him what she'd imagined doing to him, in a languorous, dangerous voice and copious technical detail.

He and she were remarkably compatible, for all their differences in social background, upbringing, and political convictions.

He liked to be spanked and tied up; she fancied the notion of spanking him and tying him up—_him in particular_—which was rather arousing and also sort of romantic, that he'd entered her personal sexual pantheon as the original Bad Boy Who Needed to Be Taught a Lesson.

And she was saying things that made him pay attention.

Back at her flat, she had a nice collection of restraints in luxurious fabrics, including a selection of Hogwarts school ties. Except for Slytherin, of course. Would he be interested in making a donation—or better yet, a temporary loan? And if he were interested, he might additionally volunteer as the model in a _practical demonstration_ of that _addition to the collection_...

Oh yes, he was interested. Never mind he could have Splinched himself Apparating, drunk, back home to the Manor to rummage through his school trunk for those ties; it was more than worth it for the gleam in her eyes when she saw the green and silver fabric in his hands.

And it was definitely worth it, for the way she grabbed his wrist and hustled them out of the Shrieking Skull into the alley designated for Apparation, not to mention other activities (for those who were feeling a bit more urgent about their assignations).

Not to mention the vigorous slap on the bum she gave him by way of pledge, just before she pulled him close and Side-along Apparated them to her flat.

They didn't get out of bed for _days, _and he didn't sit comfortably for days after that. It was the beginning of a wonderful relationship.

***

The germ of the trouble was Granger's damned obsession with Pureblood culture, and her low taste for gossip. She called it espionage or opposition research, but it was gossip. Working at the Ministry, you couldn't but hear rumors about the predilections of certain individuals, and his father ranked high on that list. How else to say it but that Lucius Malfoy had a _certain reputation?_ Draco was perfectly well aware of the rumors, but no one had ever proven anything, and he wasn't going to dignify that sort of scurrilous nonsense with a denial.

Which as it turns out was a major tactical error in dealing with Hermione.

(Yes, he thought of her as Hermione now, although she insisted he call her Granger in bed.)

Of course, Purebloods being Purebloods, they weren't going to specify the kinks in question to an outsider, a Mudblood. (Yes, he did use that word, but only in bed, because it featured prominently in their games of "punish the naughty Slytherin.") That left rather a lot to Hermione's imagination, and leaving things to Hermione's imagination was not a good idea, because she had a very creative and inventive imagination, not to mention access to excellent research libraries on both sides of the Leaky Cauldron.

Which is how Draco came to be taking Polyjuice every Friday night so as to impersonate his father for weekend-long marathons of debauchery, involving ever more elaborate scenarios and esoteric equipment. It didn't help in the least to protest that his father wasn't like that, that he was dull and rather a wet blanket, a bit of a nag about Draco keeping to his studies and finishing first in all his classes. If Lucius was going to go to the trouble to grovel to the Dark Lord and commit genocide on the Mudbloods, then his son was bloody well going to take advantage of his father's hard work, and was that understood?

No, his father had not beaten him.

No, his father had _not_ struck him with the famous snake cane.

Yes, his father was something of a domestic tyrant, but the bullying was all shame and guilt based, with the occasional hint about disinheritance: the usual Roman Governor treatment meted out to disappointing sons of noble houses. To judge from what she said, the Muggle aristocracy was no different.

The problem was that the Malfoys as a family did have that unfortunate reputation as liars. Some regrettable ancestor, in a fit of defiance, had encoded it in the family name, long before Draco's forebears had crossed the Channel as consulting necromancers to the expeditionary forces of William the Conqueror. As a result of this oppressive weight of family tradition, Hermione did not believe him.

And she didn't seem to care that he was getting _sick_ from knocking back Polyjuice all weekend every weekend, which was just insensitive and selfish on her part. And there was the difficulty of having to harvest hairs from his father's vanity table every week; at some point he was going to be caught at it …

It wasn't that the sex wasn't fantastic, but it bothered him that she was developing this sick obsession with his father. It was almost as if she didn't see _him_ any more.

And that hurt his feelings, as did the implication that his crashingly dull father was kinkier than he was. One fatal Thursday night they had a spat and he said, "Well, _Hermione,_ why don't you go sample the original? Because it isn't me you want."

To his dismay, she took him up on the offer.

***

**Acknowledgment of debts:** The Shrieking Skull is nicked from a wonderful, noir-ish fic called "Yes, Draco, There is a Santa Claus" by Silver Sailor Ganymede, which except for opening in the same dodgy pub, has _nothing_ to do with mine (for one thing, it's _serious_). Lucius Malfoy's reputation for kink is canon… I mean fanon. Everybody knows he's like that.


	2. Friday

**Disclaimer:** I'm not J.K. Rowling; I'm only visiting her universe for nonprofit fun and edification. (No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended).

*******

Hermione knew where to find Lucius Malfoy.

She worked at the Ministry, after all, in Magical Law Enforcement, making her way up the ladder by dint of ferocious attention and application, not to mention the time-turner she had palmed the last time she was in the Headmaster's office.

(Dumbledore had _twinkled_ at her from his portrait, and then, only somewhat to her surprise, _winked. _But that's another story entirely, which Hermione had long since filed under "Time Management.")

She knew exactly _where_ to find Lucius Malfoy, and _when_. Malfoy Senior made a penitential journey to the Ministry every other week to check in with his parole officer, her old friend Neville Longbottom.

On Friday, the day after her breakup with Draco, at two o'clock in the afternoon, she was peering through the one-way glass while Lucius Malfoy sat ramrod straight in the equally straight-backed office chair, cold and disdainful in his black and silver robes, his snake cane glittering under the diffuse artificial sunlight from the charmed window. His sharp-boned face was set in an icy sneer, the incomparable original of his son's pitiful attempt at hauteur.

A cloud of multi-colored paper airplanes circled lazily around the room, just under the ceiling. Neville was a lovely person and quite good at his job, but he was perennially behind on the paperwork. His office resembled Heathrow or Chicago O'Hare, with the paper-airplane memos patiently circling in at least five tiers, waiting for an opportunity to land on his desk. One hapless memo had crash-landed nose down in a coffee cup with the legend "Herbologists do it in raised beds."

The Venomous Tentacula—a rare Amazonian variety—waved its hungry flowers rather close to Lucius Malfoy's disdainful face. Hermione could tell that the interview was nearing its end, because the plant's body language was unmistakable. It was asking Neville, "Can I eat him now?" as Neville gently brushed the tendrils back toward his side of the desk, which translated as "Calm down, there's live mice in it for you if you behave yourself."

Lucius Malfoy stared icily at Neville, as if the plant weren't there at all; even on the other side of the glass, she could see the way that his thin-lipped mouth bit off his words with clipped contempt—a flash there of very sharp white teeth—well, she would know about that, wouldn't she?

Oh yes, she knew all about those teeth, except that the disappointment was that at the end of each weekend's debauch, the cold-eyed aristocrat had melted away, to be replaced with his rather disappointing scion, with that floppy unmanageable hair, eagerness to please and tendency to squirm and squeak. She couldn't believe that she'd ever found that attractive.

She opened the door of the office and strode in.

Neville looked up with visible relief, and told her that they were just finishing. He pushed the forms across the desk to Lucius, who sneered at the Ministry-issue quill before signing his elaborated swirling signature with a vicious flourish. The plant was quite agitated by now, and lashed out a tendril to seize his wrist. Neville gently detached it and hissed something reproachful in a low voice, then rummaged in his desk drawer to proffer a wriggling mouse.

The plant ate the offering with the air of one who has not begun to be placated.

Neville sighed. "We're done here, Mr. Malfoy. You can go home now."

Hermione said briskly, "I'll be talking to him first." She looked at Lucius and he sneered back.

_Oh, most promising. _

"Right boss." Neville glanced at the clock. "Bugger. Lunch at the desk _again._" He unwrapped his sandwich, and companionably offered his plant another mouse.

***

"So charmed, Miss Granger, to see you again." Subzero eyes and classic sneer, lots of fight in him yet. Yes, she'd seen him ragged and profane after the sixth go—except, of course, that wasn't him. She had to remind herself that the game was just beginning.

"So you've broken off with my son," he said. She said nothing; it was none of his business. "He's been moping around the Manor making a nuisance of himself." Oh well, that was Draco, perpetually six years old and sulky. Regular sex made him cheerful and even a little giddy, but that was over…

On to the chase.

She said, "I am interested in studying Pureblood customs." He looked at her with those cold, cold grey eyes. She said, "You have a certain reputation, Mr. Malfoy."

He raised one blond brow.

"A reputation for knowing rather _more_ than some," she said. Then she told him that she was interested in _primary sources_, with _all_ the footnotes, and she knew all the necessary bad words in medieval Latin so he needn't bowdlerize.

"So on top of the annoyance of reporting to your oafish colleague and his carnivorous plant, I am to be studied. Is this to benefit humanity, Miss Granger?"

Oh no, she assured him, she had no humanitarian plans with respect to him; her intentions were purely selfish. Her own reputation had misled him. She had heard interesting things about him, but regrettably her informants refused to specify… the _details._ And as everyone knew, the devil was in the details.

"And am I the devil, Miss Granger?"

For the first time she smiled.

***

It went without saying that the Purebloods were a perverse lot (in the support of which assertion she presented Draco as Exhibit A), and if Lucius Malfoy had a reputation among _them_ for being especially kinky, that was something not to be missed. It was rather tiring, though, all of this aristocratic indirection, like Noel Coward masquerading as the Marquis de Sade, or maybe vice versa.

He kept insisting that she lacked a proper understanding of the Pureblood way of life, and in particular the taboos that fenced it about… how to violate those taboos was worth one's life, or at least one's reputation. His ex-wife was a case in point…

She read between the lines that the extreme penalties for indulging these mysterious kinks only added a certain frisson to the proceedings, thus proving that the Pureblood aristocrats were human after all.

Really, it wasn't properly sporting, since she was his parole officer's boss. On the other hand, he didn't seem to care about that, and was looking at her rather like a snake eyeing a particularly delectable prey animal—say a fluffy, flightless bird or a small furry rodent.

Which annoyed her, of course, sufficiently to make her lick her lips and contemplate what would happen when they got _behind closed doors._

It took a mere four hours (by her discreetly consulted wristwatch) to get the dance of seduction to the proper place… four steps forward, three steps back, with the taut passion of a tango.

***

Some time around six-thirty, they Apparated to his discreet pied-a-terre in London.

In that silky, insinuating voice with its edge of menace, he said, "But these are my _work clothes._ Excuse me while I slip into something more appropriate to our evening together."

Given that his _work clothes_ were already a black leather and velvet dream of aristocratic kink, she could only imagine what the _more appropriate_ ensemble would be…

When he emerged from the boudoir arrayed in a fuzzy cardigan, pyjamas like her father wore, and the slippers… the regrettable slippers, from which she averted her eyes because she'd rather not think about it, she wished that she had left it to her imagination.

He suggested that she might sit next to him on the couch, and they could cuddle a bit, while watching _television._

He even had some _tapes._

No, not pornography… at least not as she had previously understood the term.

She found herself terminally appalled at how he looked like her schoolmate's father. Hell, he looked like _her_ father. He looked _cozy_ and _rumpled_ and worse, _domestic_. And he looked altogether too much like her _boyfriend, _and not in a nice way.

Well yes of course he looked like her boyfriend, because he was her boyfriend's _father._

The conversation took a further turn for the worse when, in between watching the tapes, he talked about Narcissa. After a bit, he sounded far too much like a middle-aged man who couldn't figure out why his wife had left him.

She suggested a few possibilities.

"Your rash decision to pledge your life and honor to a genocidal madman?"

"Your dodgy associations and your reckless ambition, that put her only son, the apple of her eye, in mortal danger from said madman?"

"Your foul, indecent racist convictions, in which she no longer believes?"

No, it was incompatibility. Sexual incompatibility. He never thought that his wife with her genteel, ice-queen ways, was capable of… _that sort of thing_. Liked it, even. And with… a Weasley. The one who worked in the Ministry, who wasn't Arthur. At least he had that satisfaction, that it wasn't Arthur, because Molly Weasley was still aggrieved about Bellatrix, even if he would be the first to admit that she was _self-dramatizing _and _rash_, with no sense of proper hair care. If _his_ ex-wife had run off with Molly's husband Arthur, Molly would find a way to blame the nefarious Malfoys.

And then she'd turn up on his doorstep to hex his bollocks off.

Which is trouble he doesn't need, given how much bother it was to pay off Skeeter to leave out the more lurid details of Narcissa's perversions. He'd owe a second installment for suppressing the otherwise irresistible combination of St. Mungo's Spell Damage, Lucius Malfoy's Vanished bits, and Molly Weasley in a bad mood.

It occurs to Hermione that wherever it is that Vanished objects go, there's an odd collection of stuff there, predominantly baby poo and body parts.

***

She was sitting on the couch with her boyfriend's father, feeling increasingly awkward as he unfolded his tale of marital woe.

Never mind she had broken up with Draco over this regrettable fantasy; he was still her boyfriend, if only in the sense of ex-, the one who got away. Practically the whole time she had known him, he had been evil, but not good enough at it to be worrying. Frankly, he was inept, and, as a result, weirdly sexy. He was nobody she could be seen in public with—well, except for that bit in Trafalgar Square (to make up for the impracticality of staging his flagship fantasy in the actual Great Hall) for which she could only say thank Merlin for Disillusionment Charms—but on the other hand, she was two for two with Ron, who was skulking about with Pansy Parkinson.

It was just too small a world.

She could patch things up, she thought, if she just put a brave face on it. Which is to say, if she told him the truth. She _really_ hadn't understood about Pureblood taboos, even if she'd been listening for the last eight years…

She made her excuses and departed, torn between the urge to cry and to laugh uncontrollably.

***


	3. Saturday, and After

**Disclaimer:** I'm not J.K. Rowling; I'm only visiting her universe for nonprofit fun and edification. (No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended).

*******

It deeply disturbed Draco that Hermione had told him the whole tale with an expression of chastened seriousness, behind which he saw her face twitching in the attempt to suppress laughter.

It also didn't help that it was Saturday morning, and he hadn't slept well, because he was missing the _vigorous exercise_ that had become customary on Friday nights.

It was true, then, about Muggle-borns, he reproached her; they really didn't understand.

She fully admitted this, while plainly having no idea how profoundly disgraceful the whole thing was. Draco had been appalled to learn that all the rumors about his father were true, and more. In particular, he really didn't want that picture with the slippers. Not to mention all those cards with the cute little animals on them the color of poisonous sweets, and the _television,_ and the _tapes_...

… and he really didn't want to _think_ about his mother and Percy Weasley in bed discussing engineering tolerances for chemical process plants, because that was _beyond_ disgusting.

He really would have liked to spurn her, as the bearer of bad tidings. And he had broken it off with her, hadn't he?

She was saying that they could take up where they left off, less the Polyjuice. That it was him she wanted. That, as far as she was concerned, he _was_ the original. She didn't go so far as to say she'd made a mistake, but after all this time he knew that she wasn't likely to say that in so many words.

On the other hand, she said that if it was over, she really ought to return his school ties; after all, they had been a _temporary loan._

He couldn't help a quiver of regret as the cool silk dropped into his outstretched palms.

He absently fingered the fabric and remembered, very much against his will, how nice that silk had felt against his wrists, not to mention the occasional times it had served as a blindfold…

He knew that she had prepared this speech, because it was all too smooth, as she told him that she would _treasure the memories of their time together. _No doubt those words had come right out of some up-to-date Muggle manual on gracefully breaking up with your … whatever he was to her. Or _had been._

Worst of all, she insisted on _theorizing_ about the whole thing, how the Purebloods' forbidden kinks played out a coded version of their ambivalence toward the Muggle world from which they had exiled themselves three hundred years before. This disquisition was the coldest of cold comfort. It was fine for the likes of Arthur Weasley to putter about with plugs and flying cars, but Draco's father had a social position to uphold, even as a paroled Death Eater …

… a paroled Death Eater and professed Muggle-hater whose at-home togs included bright yellow Pikachu slippers. _Fuzzy_ slippers, in the likeness of a winsome cartoon creature with a lightning bolt for a tail, in Hufflepuff colors, which added a fortuitous layer of _just plain wrong_ to the horror of it all. What was worse, the slippers were only the most obvious indicator of his addiction to Pokemon. His collection of cards was one of the most extensive in the British Isles, Muggle _or_ wizarding.

Draco hoped that at least the breadth of the collection represented an outlay of bribes or other exercise of nefarious means. Otherwise he was left with the picture of his father playing a rather ridiculous card game with a succession of Muggle children.

His mother's kinky secret life was even worse. He blamed himself, now, for the paperback copy of _The Hunt for Red October_ that he had bought at his renegade Aunt Andromeda's book shop, which volume his mother had promptly discovered and confiscated.

Rather than incinerating it with a quick _Incendio,_ she had read it, in the spirit of vigilant Pureblood motherhood, to see what trash was corrupting the younger generation.

As he understood it, the story concerned some murky business with Muggles, but that wasn't the main point of it; there had been page after page of lovingly detailed descriptions of _machine parts _and the _power plant,_ and in fact the whole thing gave away _the plans to the submarine._ (His mother hadn't been sure at the time what a submarine was, and Draco was fairly sure it was nothing _he_ wanted to know more about.)

Apparently the whole thing had gotten her rather hot and bothered, and being a true daughter of the House of Black, she couldn't stick to fiction. One thing led to another, and eventually Lucius had found her stash of industrial quality control journals, as well as a whole set of the ISO standards. On being found out, she had confessed that the postwar trip to Sevres, to replace the teacups so carelessly smashed by the late Dark Lord (who had been notoriously testy about the proper proportions of milk and sugar in his tea), also had included a secret assignation with her lover, Percy Weasley. The two of them had visited the _Bureau international des poids et mesures_ and then gone back to their hotel to indulge themselves in scientific investigations of a rather more private nature.

As for her lover, his insatiable lust for precision had descended the slippery slope from wizarding cauldron bottom thickness to Muggle industrial specifications.

Hermione said she had read that _Red October _book herself years ago, or parts of it, at the insistence of one of her Muggle cousins. It had been quite boring, she said, and it never would have occurred to her that some might fancy it as _machine porn._

She tried (unsuccessfully) to suppress her giggles at the notion of his mother's kinky idyll with Percy Weasley.

"Really, Granger, this isn't funny," he said.

But she didn't hear him, because she was on about his father's television set and collection of cartoon tapes and _comfy couch._ She said, to no one in particular, "Nobody _expects_ the Spanish Inquisition…" and then doubled over laughing.

There was nothing remotely funny about the Spanish Inquisition, and he wasn't sure if she hadn't gone mad.

"… and Neville's plant _hates _your father," she added, trying not to choke. Then she stopped laughing, and looked at him speculatively. "You were right, Malfoy. Your father is very, very dull."

_You were right, Malfoy._ He had never thought he'd ever hear those words from her lips.

"And you're _definitely_ the kinky one."

He wasn't going to tell her that he had since read the reassuring (if deflating) advice that his predilections were _healthy_ and _normal_ for wizards of his age and social background.

He remembered the Slytherin school ties still in his hands, and threw them back at her. "If you say so, Granger, you _swotty Mudblood._"

She caught them, narrowed her eyes, and said in a silky, dangerous purr, "Malfoy, I think you need to be _taught a lesson._ I leave you alone for a _day,_ and you get completely out of hand."

***

At Hermione's prompting, Draco finally persuaded his father to go to the confidential St. Mungo's support group for spouses of the Muggle-obsessed. It was turning out well, though it made him nervous that in recent weeks, Lucius had been talking rather a lot about Molly Weasley. Draco suspected that his father's sentiments toward Mrs. Weasley were something more than gratitude in the matter of his late Aunt Bellatrix, because he had been saying how _cuddly_ she looked sitting across from him.

As well, she appeared to be knitting him a jumper.

Putting that worry aside, Draco was really, really happy that his girlfriend was back, _teaching him a lesson he wouldn't soon forget_, all weekend every weekend, and that he didn't have to drink Polyjuice to satisfy her.

It was wonderful to be appreciated for himself.

***

**Author's notes:** This chapter is a high-water mark for popular culture references in my work. Tom Clancy, Monty Python, and Pokemon _all in the same chapter._

Special thanks to Neville Longbottom, for the cameo appearance in chapter 2. tenoh27, to whom this piece is dedicated, seriously fancies Neville, and _someone_ had to be the parole officer.

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.


End file.
